


Scarecrows

by katalicz



Series: Prompt fills [4]
Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Bandit has Seen Some Shit and is Not Good at Dealing With It, Blitz is the best 10/10 human being, Character Study, M/M, Mission Gone Wrong, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 04:26:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15380619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katalicz/pseuds/katalicz
Summary: When Bandit dreams, he dreams of blood.He dreams of Jäger falling to bullets too quick to dodge; of IQ being blown apart by a bomb her Spectre can't see; of Blitz diving in front of killing blows meant for him.





	Scarecrows

**Author's Note:**

> Okay this is in answer to a prompt i got a while ago, asking for Blitz comforting Bandit after a nightmare. I went a bit wild with it tbh this was supposed to be 2k words shorter  
> I hope you like it????

Bandit doesn’t dream often.

He supposes that that’s a good thing – he knows his teammates all suffer from nightmares of some sort: that Blitz often wakes in a blind panic following a dream of his time in Mumbai, in Kosovo, or after a long, hard mission; that Jäger dreams of losing everything he loves, of wandering through endless corridors, of his Magpies failing and killing them all. He knows how IQ dreams of failure, of never being good enough, always being a second too late to spot a threat with her Spectre.

He’s seen how rattled it leaves them for days afterwards, knows how to tell how long they’ve been awake for by the shape of the bags under their eyes, the tremor in their hands, the number of laps they run on the track. Usually they’ll mention it offhandedly, which generally leads to a group sleepover in whoever room’s biggest (Jäger’s, somehow - Bandit has _no idea_ how that happened) or a midnight baking session in the kitchen, accompanied by anyone else on base that happens to be up.

Bandit is well used to spending his mornings half-listening to Jäger babble on about his latest bizarre dream, which are not usually enough to cause him distress but are definitely enough to unsettle him. He's used to finding Blitz huddled over a mug of coffee in the early morning, bruise-like bags beneath his eyes and a haunted look in his eyes that makes Bandit’s chest ache. IQ rarely needs help – she bunks with Twitch, after all, and they’ve figured out a system of their own. Only once has IQ crept into Bandit’s room to reassure herself that he’s still alive, but he’s heard from both the others that she’ll occasionally curl up with them, hand wrapped firmly around their wrists, directly over the pulse.

Jäger is jealous, when Bandit offhandedly mentions his lack of nightmares, and IQ is quietly curious. Blitz doesn’t comment (he knows Bandit has more of them than he’d ever admit, though Bandit has never allowed him to help), instead looking concerned and, when they're alone, quietly asking just how _much_ Bandit remembers about Hanover.

Bandit suspects from then on that Blitz understands what he’s done; how he’s managed to push all his dark memories (and there are _so many years of them_ that Bandit sometimes fears they will drive him insane) to the back of his mind, tightly locked up in the pretence they never happened, and he’s sure that Blitz knows how they always manage to seep through in the end, knows that that is when the nightmares come.

When Bandit dreams, he dreams of blood.

He dreams of bodies dissolving in acid, electrocuted in bathtubs and cut into pieces small enough that they won’t be found, not even by the dogs. He sees the people he’s killed, both directly and not, smears of cocaine around their nostrils and mouths, eyes bloody and open and staring at him accusatorily – he was the one that sold it to them, after all; he chose his mission (and his _survival_ ) over all of their lives.

He dreams of knifes and needles and cruel smiles, wide grins with sharp teeth saying, “ _We know who you are, we know what you’ve done,”_ before tying him down and making him pay the same way they made other traitors pay, even though he knows full well he covered his tracks, wore his other identity like a second skin, well enough that he’s still not sure where _it_ ends and _he_ begins.

He dreams of his brother, choking on his words, clutching his chest; a prank gone wrong. _How was he supposed to know?_ he wants to cry, but his family remain unforgiving and furious, the stares remain harsh and the whispers spread throughout his base, getting him demoted and reassigned and making him into what they perceived him to be.

He can just about deal with those ones, because eventually he remembers that it’s all in the past. He had no choice, in Hanover; he did what he had to do to survive, no matter how much it hurts _– it was for the greater good_ , as his commander had said when he returned, distant and cold and solitary, used to watching his own back and that alone. He knows that Cedrick survived, despite the initial predictions, and he was never really close to his family either – the prodigal son, the troublemaker, the unwanted twin. It hurts in the dreams and it hurts for a while afterwards, but he can _cope_ with them.

He _can’t_ cope when the dreams include his team, when they’re the victims of the crimes he took part in, when they’re the ones paying for his mistakes with their lives.

Sometimes after a mission he sees Jäger falling to bullets too quick for even him to dodge; IQ blown apart from a bomb her Spectre can’t find. He sees bullets slip past Rook’s carefully crafted armour, Smoke mistiming a throw with his canisters, Doc arriving just a second too late to be of help. The worst ones (and the most _frequent_ , now that he and Blitz have become whatever they are to each other) are always when Blitz’s shield breaks and leaves him with nothing but a pistol against a hoard of enemies and nobody around to help; when he dives in front of a killing shot meant for someone else, always willing to sacrifice himself and never understanding how much it _hurts_ Bandit to know how little he values his own life.

He sees himself as the sole survivor, again and again, like a curse; the dreams close enough to reality that they make him question whether or not they actually happened, heart pounding in his chest and dread sitting in his stomach like lead, too scared to find out whether his team are still alive or whether he’s lost the only friends ( _family_ ) he’s had in decades.

(So far, none of his dreams have been true.)

(He figures that it’s only a matter of time before that changes.)

 

* * *

 

It’s after a mission gone wrong in Holland when the nightmares return.

There had been a hostage – just one, held on the top floor of a block of flats; the others already having been retrieved safely and efficiently and undergoing treatment by Doc and the ambulance crew in the streets below.

Bandit doesn’t do hostage missions, as a rule – he has the unfortunate tendency to shoot first and ask questions later, which isn’t great when there are unarmoured civilians at stake - but Ash is out of commission with a strained wrist and Blitz and IQ had already been recruited, so Bandit had agreed when a harried looking Thatcher had come to him, five minutes before the helicopter was due to depart.

He regrets it, when the extraction plan goes wrong and the last hostage takes a bullet to the shoulder, passing straight through only to get lodged in IQ’s armour, an inch below her exposed throat. Sledge is felled by a C4 that Blitz barely manages to block, distracted by IQ’s startled shout, and they're both launched back through a wall and into a heap of debris that fills Sledge’s arm with shrapnel.

Bandit had cleared the rest of the cell with his heart in his mouth and fire in his veins, guilt sat like a lump in his throat because if he had taken down the man that shot IQ earlier, the hostage wouldn’t have been rushed to the ICU, hooked up to three blood bags and an oxygen mask. IQ wouldn’t be stark white and trembling, realising when the mission was over and her armour was off just how close she’d been to death. Blitz would have seen the C4 earlier and taken cover from it sooner, saving himself a concussion _(and from almost becoming a stain on the wall)_ and Sledge from being in an operating theatre for an hour whilst Doc dug metal and wood alike out of his arm.

_It's his fault._

So he avoids Blitz when he approaches with open arms and relief in his eyes, because Bandit doesn’t _deserve_ his pity, his affection, whatever fragile thing that’s formed between them. He lets Doc inspect him once and avoids him thereafter, refuses to look IQ in the eyes and tries to ignore the guilt gnawing at his chest, threatening to swallow him whole.

He shuts himself in his room the second they arrive back on base, brushing past a worried Jäger and resolutely not turning around when Blitz calls for him to _wait, Bandit, please_ \- he needs to get away from the watching eyes and the pitying stares, to escape his mind for a while, to make it _stop_.

He takes a pair of the sleeping pills Jäger had persuaded him to get, their packet promising for 14 hours of undisturbed, peaceful sleep, and lies in bed trembling, waiting for the darkness to take him.

(And, despite his wanting to be alone, the fact that Blitz doesn’t try to reach him again hurts more than he ever imagined possible.)

 

* * *

 

Of course, the pills don’t work.

Or rather, they succeed in getting him to sleep, but they don’t stop the dreams.

He’s back in the flat, and he sees what he had dreaded most come to light.

He sees Blitz, a second too slow in lifting his shield, thrown aside with a spray of red covering the wall behind him, eyes staring blankly at Bandit where he falls. Sledge goes down with him but Bandit barely notices for the buzzing in his ears, the bile in his throat, the sound of a single gunshot, and he turns just in time to see the bullet miss the hostage and go straight through IQ’s slender throat.

She drops to the floor like a bag of stones, blood pumping out in spurts and Bandit _screams_ ; he can’t do anything but watch, pulse thundering in his ears and limbs as heavy as lead as he flees, trying to convince himself it’s not _real_ , it didn’t _happen_ , that it’s a _dream_ -

(and yet he can’t wake up, why can’t he _wake up-?)_

He runs until he finds himself back at the base, which is silent and dusty and stinks of death, and he finds out why when he steps into the kitchen to see Jäger slumped over at the table, white powder smeared around his mouth and nose in a way that is so horribly _familiar_ , eyes rimmed with red and tear tracks streaked down his greying cheeks.

 _‘You did this’_ is written across the table in Jäger’s familiar scrawl, the words a dark brown that glistens dully under the dim kitchen light, and as Bandit watches, the powder moves to spell out _‘we are coming for you_.’

Bandit staggers backwards, fear freezing his lungs -  _he’s been found out, they’re going to make him pay and it’s all Bandit’s fault, he wasn’t good enough, he did this, he_ killed _them, like he killed back in Hanover-_

This time when Bandit screams it’s enough to drag him awake, body stiff and unresponsive and bile rising in his throat. His heart pounds painfully in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins, and he can’t breathe, can’t _see_ -

He manages to drag himself out of bed and to the bathroom in time to heave into the toilet, the taste of acid filling his mouth and making tears stream down his face. The prayer of _please let it be a dream, don’t let it be real_ echoes around his skull in time to the thundering of his heart beat, and he can’t remember what _happened_ -

He heaves again, then the light switches on and drags a yelp from his throat, breath stuttering in his lungs because _they’ve come for him, to finish him off and he’ll deserve it_ -

But the knife he expects to sever his neck doesn’t come, and instead he hears quiet footsteps approach him and a dull thud as something is placed on the floor.

“Can I touch you?” comes Blitz’s soft voice, and Bandit shudders in relief, in despair, the tears increasing ten-fold because it _was_ a dream-

A warm presence settles by his side and a hand comes to rest on the small of his back, rubbing circles rhythmically, reassuring in the way that only Blitz can be, and the guilt that _Bandit could’ve gotten him killed_ makes him heave again.

Blitz doesn’t say anything, just shushes him quietly and keeps his hand steadily moving, waiting patiently for Bandit to put himself back together – Bandit isn’t sure exactly when Blitz learnt how to deal with him and his baggage so well, but it’s both comforting and guilt inducing because Blitz shouldn’t _have_ to know, Bandit should have better control over himself-

Blitz hushes him again and stays until Bandit’s pulse starts to slow and his lungs remember how to work, shivering from the cold and the adrenaline (and the embarrassment that Blitz has found him like this _again_ -).

The hand moves away from his back (if he whines at the loss of contact, nobody needs to know) and comes to tug gently at his shoulder. He turns automatically to see Blitz holding out an open bottle of water, bags under his worried eyes and face unusually pale.

Bandit takes it, rinses his mouth out and retches dryly, and when he’s finished, Blitz guides him gently away from the toilet to sit with his back against the cool tile wall. He drinks again, more to do something with his hands than anything else, and when he puts the bottle down, Blitz is _gone_.

Panic hits his chest with the force of a truck and he has to force himself to breathe through the lump that’s formed in his throat, knuckles coming to press against his closed eyes until he sees sparks. The dull ache doesn’t do much to hold back the numbness threatening to overwhelm him at the thought that he _really_ must be too far gone, if even _Blitz_ isn’t willing to stay and help – and of _course_ he isn’t, considering how Bandit had pushed him away without a second thought-

(And the flame of hope that had formed in his chest when he had learnt that _Blitz feels the same_ flickers, because there’s no _way_ he hasn’t ruined this – not even _Blitz_ has enough compassion to deal with a mess like _him_.)

He doesn’t hear the door open again, too lost in his thoughts and the hollowness flooding his chest, but he startles when a weight settles around his shoulders, something akin to a whimper escaping his throat.

Warm hands tug at his own, pulling them away from his eyes and under the blanket Blitz has wrapped around him. Blitz has turned the bathroom light off and left the bedroom lamp on, and it shines through the doorway and gives him an orange halo (and how _fitting_ that is, Bandit dully thinks), but doesn’t do anything to hide the dark bags below Blitz’s eyes, the worried frown on his face.

He slowly reaches out and tucks the blanket a bit more firmly around Bandit’s shoulders – and for some reason, it’s that small act of kindness that is so typically _Blitz_ that takes him back over the edge, causes an ugly sob to wretch itself from his throat and sends hot tears spilling down his cheeks because Blitz is _alive_ , he _hasn’t_ killed him, he’s done nothing to _deserve this-_

Blitz says something that Bandit can’t hear for the blood rushing in his ears, but he’s pulled up flush against Blitz’s chest a second later, head falling onto his shoulder and tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt. His pulse is quick but strong next to Bandit’s cheek, his breathing not quite as steady as it usually is but a comfort all the same.

"You’re safe," Blitz whispers, fingers pressing into Bandit’s back a little too sharply – the dull pain they cause is grounding, drags Bandit back into his body, making him aware of the way his chest is heaving, how he’s trembling and aching and struggling to breathe. “I promise, it wasn’t real. We’re okay, we’re all okay.”

If Blitz can feel the wet patch growing against his neck, he doesn’t comment on it. He just strokes his thumb down the notches of Bandit’s spine, whispering quiet reassurances. His chest moves rhythmically against Bandit’s own, and Bandit doesn’t have to be told to try and copy it – this isn’t the first time that Blitz has caught him in the middle of a panic attack and it won’t be the last, but it never gets any _easier_.

When his breathing finally levels out _(Blitz is alive, Jäger is fine, IQ is only bruised-)_ and the knot of terror loosens in his chest, he carefully unwraps his hands from the blanket and reaches forwards to curl his arms around Blitz’s sides. He's warm and solid under Bandit’s fingers, but as Bandit presses his thumbs into the small of Blitz’s back, he realises that Blitz is trembling almost as much as he is.

Blitz exhales shakily and drops his head to rest on Bandit’s own. “I heard you screaming,” he murmurs, and Bandit can’t help but wince – of _course_ he did, the whole base likely did, and they’ll all tiptoe around him like he’s a scared animal _(or a killer, a threat)_ in the morning.

“I didn’t know whether to come and find you or not, earlier," Blitz continues. "I’m sorry, I should have done - I should have _realised_ -"

He sounds so upset that it makes Bandit’s heart ache with guilt and fresh tears slip down his cheeks - _he did this, Blitz could have died and yet he’s the one needing the comfort_ -

“We’re all okay, there’s no permanent damage done,” Blitz eventually says, when Bandit has almost stopped shaking and the tears have stopped flowing, his voice slightly muffled where his lips are pressed against Bandit’s hair. “And we don’t blame you, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s not your fault.”

Bandit sighs heavily, because of _course_ Blitz knows what plaguing his mind. It’s one of the things he’s not sure whether he loves or hates about Blitz, that he can read him so well, is always so compassionate and caring (because Bandit really has done _nothing_ to earn it.)

He presses his thumb into Blitz’s side in lieu of an actual reply, and Blitz presses a kiss to Bandit’s temple (that both breaks his heart and fixes it at the same time, because he _doesn’t deserve this_ -) before pulling away.

Bandit refuses to look him in the eye, even as Blitz gently tilts his chin up with a warm hand, the other still gripping his shoulder firmly. He doesn’t want to see the pity that’s undoubtedly there, the sadness and the pain he’s caused Blitz (because that’s all Bandit ever _does_ ; he loses control and he fights and he hurts and he kills, ruled by bloodlust and loathing and the need to feel _something_ again by any means possible-)

(But, a quiet part of his mind whispers, the part not wallowing in guilt and hatred and horror; Blitz _knows_ that, and he’s sat by Bandit’s side anyway.)

When Blitz stands up, the loss of contact making Bandit’s skin prickle uncomfortably, he half expects Blitz to go and not bother coming back.

Instead he stretches and says, “Do you think we can move out of the bathroom? My knees are hurting like a _bitch_.”

Bandit blinks, relief slowly spreading through him (and guilt, too, because rationally he _knows_ Blitz wouldn’t do such a thing, and yet here he is thinking it anyway), and he can just about see the way Blitz is smiling softly in the dull light.

He takes Blitz’s outstretched hand and lets him heave him up, head spinning dangerously as he gains his balance and Blitz holding steadily around his waist. His legs ache dully – _how long were they sprawled on the floor? –_ and his skin is clammy with sweat, but at least he’s not seeing the deaths of his team every time he closes his eyes, isn’t catatonic with blind panic the way he would be if it weren’t for Blitz’s arrival.

They make it three steps before Bandit’s knees buckle, but Blitz manages to heft him up into his arms before he can even make a sound. It’s as embarrassing as all hell but it’s warm and safe and Bandit doesn’t want to think about how long it would’ve taken them otherwise. He feels as though he’s been in a fight with a bear – everything _hurts_ , is heavy and weak and disconnected, and he remembers with a jolt that the sleeping pills must still be in his system.

Blitz is gentle when he puts him down, murmuring an apology as he steps away to reach into a bag on the desk that Bandit vaguely recognises.

“Unless you really want me to go, I'm staying with you,” Blitz says, softly but firmly, and that’s a relief to hear – if he dreams again and the pills won’t let him wake, at least Blitz will be able to do _something_.

(And if he sleeps better with the sound of quiet breathing in his ears, a rhythmic pulse under his hand, the knowledge that he’s not _alone_ – well, Blitz is the only one who knows, and he’s hardly going to spread it around the base.)

“S’fine,” Bandit manages to croak out, throat raw and voice harsh on his ears, but Blitz doesn’t react other than smiling warmly.

“Good. You didn’t eat when we got back, did you?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer before he's coming to sit on the bed and holding out a packet of glucose tablets. “Have a couple of these whilst I get water, okay? They’ll help a little bit.”

Bandit does as he’s told and tries to ignore the way his chest tightens as Blitz leaves, focuses on the awful orange flavour and the sound of the tap running behind the bathroom door. The tablets do seem to help – his hands feel a little steadier and his mouth tastes better – and Bandit is, for once, grateful that Jäger is so terrible at remembering to eat that Blitz has taken to carrying packets of the things everywhere.

Blitz is back thirty seconds later (and maybe Bandit had counted each one to quieten the irrational panic threatening to rise back up, like the tragedy he is), bottle in hand. He pushes it at Bandit immediately, says, “don’t dehydrate, you’ll be miserable if you do,”, and slips under the covers, feet cold where they press at Bandit’s calves.

The water is cool and does wonders to soothe Bandit’s throat, but that’s nothing compared to the warmth that comes from Blitz curling around him, chest pressed against Bandit’s back and slinging an arm over his waist. He downs half the bottle and puts it within easy reach of the bed before turning off the lamp and flopping down, cushioning his head on the arm Blitz slides under his neck, and lets him tug the duvet around them a bit more securely.

They’ve slept together before – either for comfort or for warmth, sometimes accompanied by Jäger or IQ or both. These days it’s simply because they _want_ to, now that they’ve become whatever they are - but this feels _different,_ and Bandit can’t quite figure out why.

(Maybe it’s because Blitz didn’t get a choice in the matter. If Bandit was shouting, the whole base probably heard, and Blitz would have been the one nominated to come and shut him up. All because Bandit isn’t strong enough to pull himself together, hasn’t got as good a grip on his emotions as he likes to make everyone believe, is stupidly affected by minor things and can’t put the past out of his _head_ -)

Blitz’s arm tightens around his waist ever so slightly, and his warm breath puffs against Bandit’s ear.

“I can hear you thinking,” he murmurs, and Bandit grimaces. Here he is again, causing Blitz trouble.

“M’sorry,” he replies lowly. “You can go if you want.”

Blitz makes an affronted sound and sits up slightly, arm putting more weight into Bandit’s side in a way that should probably hurt, but Bandit can barely feel. “Absolutely not,” he says firmly. “Unless you _want_ me to go, but I don’t think you do.”

He wiggles his fingers slightly, and Bandit becomes aware of the way he’s clutching them like a lifeline, like they’re the only things that matter. And besides, Bandit doesn’t _want_ Blitz to go, doesn’t want to lose this feeling of safety and care and warmth, but he doesn’t want to be an inconvenience and waste Blitz’s time just because he’s a _fucking_ _idiot_ that can’t handle himself properly.

He lets his grip on Blitz’s fingers loosen and slides his hand down to hold onto Blitz’s wrist, feels the pulse thudding comfortable beneath his thumb, unwilling to voice a response – he’d only say the wrong thing, after all.

It’s enough of an answer for Blitz, thank god – he hums as though his point has been proven and lies back down, forehead coming back to rest on Bandit’s shoulder.

They lie like that for what might be a minute or might be an hour – Bandit can’t tell the difference and can’t drop back to sleep, despite the exhaustion that aches in his bones and how heavy his eyelids feel. It’s only when Blitz sighs deeply and shifts to press his lips to Bandit’s neck that he realises that Blitz isn’t asleep yet, either – and knowing him, he likely hasn’t got any since leaving on the mission. Guilt sparks in Bandit’s chest – he’s keeping Blitz up, and he _knows_ Blitz struggles to sleep at the best of times.

“Do you remember,” Blitz suddenly says, making Bandit startle slightly. “When you put those confetti cannons in my shield?”

Bandit winces, because he _does_ remember and he’d much rather not – it had given Blitz a panic attack that had left him unresponsive for almost half an hour. It’s yet another example of him hurting someone, never mind that it was supposed to be a _joke_.

“You stayed up with me for three nights until I could sleep without freaking out,” Blitz continues softly. “You didn’t have to, but you did.”

“Of course I had to, it was _my fault_ ,” Bandit replies bitterly, and he’d be fuming if he weren’t so exhausted – _of course_ Blitz has forgiven him, he’s the only person Bandit has ever met that is foolish enough to do so.

(Jäger and IQ do too, but he’s never wronged them like he has Blitz – he has to work to convince himself it’s an _entirely different thing_.)

“I overreacted,” Blitz states calmly, and Bandit tightens his grip on his wrist, guilt clawing at his throat.

“I _knew_ you were having a bad week and I did it anyway,” he snaps. “It was my fault, I shouldn’t have done it – you had a _perfectly reasonable reaction_ -“

Blitz hushes him before his tirade goes any further, before the simmering heat in his chest becomes a fire fuelled by pain and regret and uncomfortable self-loathing. “I know, it’s okay, just breathe,” he says. “And if _that_ was reasonable, don’t you think that _this_ is a perfectly reasonable reaction to today? It’s the same kind of thing, really.”

The hand that had been loosely draped around Bandit’s waist comes up to rub reassuring circles into his side, and Bandit’s eyes open in surprise, because no, actually; he hadn’t thought of that at all.

“I mean, IQ almost died, Sledge almost died, we nearly lost the hostage-“ Blitz continues, and if Bandit didn’t know him so well, he wouldn’t have heard the carefully hidden pain in his voice. “-And I really think it’d be weirder if you didn’t react at all. You’re _allowed_ to have nightmares. We don’t think any less of you.”

“It was my fault; I nearly got you all _killed_ ,” Bandit protests weakly, mind working overtime in an attempt to make sense of what Blitz has just said – the situations are so much _different_ , it can’t be that _simple_ -

“It wasn’t,” Blitz says gently, lips catching on Bandit’s neck and making his skin tingle. “It happens, sometimes, you know that. He was in your blind spot. Thatcher didn’t see him either – and we’re _so lucky_ he didn’t aim for either of you; I don’t think we would’ve made it out alive if he had.”

“But the _hostage_ -“

“-Is fine, she’ll make a full recovery with only little loss of function to the arm. The hospital called Doc after we got back to let us know,” Blitz explains, and drops his forehead to rest on Bandit’s shoulder before carrying on, voice so quiet that Bandit barely hears him. “And honestly? The only reason I was still awake to hear you was so that _I_ didn’t have to dream of _my_ mistakes. I didn’t want to see you die, or IQ, and not be able to _save you_. I _hate_ it.”

His voice cracks on the final word and Bandit’s heart aches for him, despite the comfort the words bring – of _course_ Blitz understands, Bandit knows full well of the terrors Blitz sees; he’s sat with him after them more times that he cares to count. He’s just too self-absorbed, too preoccupied with his own troubles to remember.

They lie in silence for a minute, until Bandit unravels his thoughts and the knot of guilt loosens in his chest (Blitz _gets_ it, he understands, _he doesn’t hate him or blame him_ -) and for the first time since leaving the base all those hours ago, he feels something akin to calm.

Blitz must sense that the storm in his head has quietened, for he presses his lips to Bandit’s back in a soft kiss and says, “Please try to rest. And if you want to talk about it, I'm here to listen.”

“I know,” Bandit mumbles in reply, and surprises himself by actually considering Blitz’s request instead of barking out a rude _no_. “In the morning, perhaps. Not now.”

He wants to sleep, now that his thoughts aren’t raging and driving him towards chaos. His body feels heavy and is aching dully, from the mission and the _drama_ and their stint on the floor (and Blitz is warm and safe, breath dancing across Bandit’s skin and pulse strong beneath Bandit’s fingers – he’s alive and he wants to _be_ here, by Bandit’s side, and _that_ is the best thing that he’s realised all night.)

“That’s okay,” Blitz hums. “There’s no rush. Try to sleep.”

“You too,” Bandit replies, and earns a huff for his effort.

“Maybe. You know I love you, right?”

Something warm flashes through Bandit’s chest and for once it’s not _anger_ , and the last bit of tension he didn’t know he was holding seeps away. He _did_ know, despite his panic-riddled fears – Blitz has said it three times, now, – but it’s something he thinks he’ll never get tired of hearing; to know he’s not the only one, that Blitz _reciprocates_.

“I know,” he murmurs back, and presses his lips to the tips of Blitz’s fingers. “You know I love you too?”

The breath is pushed from his lungs as Blitz squeezes him around the middle rather a bit too tightly, face buried in Bandit’s shoulder, and Bandit slowly realises that that’s the first time he’s ever said it _back_.

(He vows, when Blitz re-emerges and says, ‘ _yeah, I know,_ ’ in a slightly higher pitch than normal, that he’ll say it more often.)

(And he _does_ tell Blitz about his dreams in the morning – about _all_ of them, of all the horrors he’s seen and done, of all the anger and hatred and loathing that threatens to consume him whole – and Blitz drags him into a fierce hug, his voice thick with tears as he makes Bandit promise to never try to cover them up again.)

(Jäger pinches him in the arm and berates him teasingly for interrupting his beauty sleep, before offering him a mug of his favourite coffee and dragging him into a hug, IQ worming her way to stand in the middle.)

(The picture Blitz takes is set as his phone’s lockscreen, and despite all his bitching, Bandit never makes him change it back.)

**Author's Note:**

> I was NERVOUS writing this lmao bc it's a bit different to anything I've done before. I spoke to quite a few people about dealing with trauma and the long term affects so HOPEFULLY it seems realistic.  
> If yall don't like it lmk and i'll make sure the next one is different?? (or vice versa lmao)  
> anyway im in college hell rn but if anyone wants anythign writing hmu itll be a pleasant distraction from said hell  
> (I might make a bliban series of things like this exploring the relationship?? idk)  
> <3  
> katalicz.tumblr.com


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